Blood? Simple. I Leak, Therefore I Am.

A while back, for insurance purposes, I had to give up three large vials of blood and two of urine. A few ounces of pee-pee and a few more of hemoglobin may seem a good swap for the $250,000 insurance to you, but the unnaturalness of it bothers me.

Blood is supposed to keep you alive by circulating in a closed system of tiny tubes inside your body. Blood is an inner-you sort of thing. It’s not supposed to come out of you. If your blood isn’t inside you, you’re dead. So voluntarily having my insides drawn outside turns my world upside down. My life essence being sucked out through a needle the size of a vacuum hose freaks me, frankly, the hell out.

Still, I used to donate blood annually. Come that donation day each year, I’d wake up pale and sweaty and only sweat more and wax paler as the bloodletting hour drew near. When my time in the mobile blood bank came, I would be asked if I were about to faint by the attendant who is there to ask you those sorts of questions. (Example: “Are you now injecting or have you ever injected yourself with drugs or other substances not prescribed by a physician?”; “Are you now about to faint?”; “Are you now or have you ever had sex with another man?”; “Are you about to faint now?”; “Not even one time, sex with a man?”; “Are you sure you’re not now about to faint?”; “Are you now or have you ever been a bloodsucking creature-of-the-night, living-dead vampire?”; “How about now?”.)

I’d always reply I hadn’t yet fainted while giving blood, but I supposed I always looked like I was about to faint because, apparently, looking faintly is the visceral reaction my body has to having its life essence sucked out.
The person who actually stuck the giant siphon in my arm would always observe, “Are you sure you’re OK? You look like you’re about to faint.” I’d reply I always looked like I was about to faint when giving blood, and I’d apologize for not having the proper blood-donating demeanor. Who knew blood donation was supposed to be such a peppy occasion?

Finally, around 2002, I think, one attendant had enough of my pasty, perspiring pallidness. He said: “You know, if giving blood causes you to stress so much, maybe you just shouldn’t do it. You know?” So I stopped.
Anyway, for some tests, I had to give the blood. But why blood? Without water, we all amount to about $1.98 in common chemicals. So if we’re all mostly water, couldn't I just spit on 'em to give them all the information they need?

Barring that, I want to know why it had to be three containers of blood and two of urine. Why not three urine and two blood, or even five urine and no blood? What makes blood a 3-to-2 favorite? What do they have against urine? I could give gallons of urine. I could give urine all day. As long as there’re no needles involved.

I thought about bringing this up to the nurse who had come to my office to draw my blood but decided against it. I figured if I started talking up my pee-generating capabilities, she might get the wrong idea, and my premiums might go up. Besides, she was a nice lady, one I didn’t want to gross out.

She was one of those thin, older women with leathery skin, wearing maybe a little too much makeup, whom you supposed would be outside leaning against the building and taking a drag off a cigarette as soon as the procedure was done. She had a slightly world-weary air, but a kind voice. As she broke out her equipment, she said, “Honey, how do you do having your blood drawn? And roll up your sleeve.”

“I always look like I’m going to faint, but I never have,” I replied.

“Well, you’re already looking pasty, hon, and I haven’t even got the needle out,” she said.

“I know,” I answered. “The anticipation, the dread of it, makes it much worse than it really is.”

“Well, just you don’t think about it,” she said as she prepped the syringe. “You just look over my shoulder, and tell me what you do here. This won’t hurt a bit.”

“I appreciate your saying that, Ma’am, but, yes ,it will — ow — hurt. What we do is — ” and I proceeded to outline my organization’s work, perspiring freely all the while.

“You’re sweating,” she noted.

“Yes. My body does that. It’s not intentional,” I said. It occurred to me if I could just sweat blood, everybody’d be happier. But I didn’t share that insight.

“OK, keep talking to me.”

So, I did. And several hours later (minutes by some objective measure, perhaps, but hours, days, eons even, in my subjective one) we were done. I had not fainted, but, as always, I was soaked, sallow and substantially lighter of hemoglobin. The nurse asked if I were sure I could stand on my own before she sent me off to the bathroom to deliver the rest of my end of the bargain. I dutifully did so without incident, but she hovered just outside the bathroom door, certain, I believe, at any moment, she’d hear the thump or splash of my collapsing body and have to rush in to save me.

After that, she instructed me to drink a soft drink, and she made sure I was drinking it before she departed. I’ve often wondered why it’s soft drinks they force upon you after a blood-taking. The claim is soft drinks replenish your blood sugar, but my theory is their high-fructose corn syrup helps seal the gaping wound in your arm. Whatever the reason, it worked. I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t bleed out.

My results came back the next week. Blood work, they call it, and work it they do. Glucose, lipids, cholesterol, HDL, LDL, triglycerides, electrolytes, thyroid, liver and kidney function, viruses, diabetes, cancer — so much can be read in your blood. Happily, all the things written in my blood were spelled out correctly, within norms for my age. My blood sugar was a little low, but that’s nothing a dose of high-fructose corn syrup can’t solve.

I still don’t know why the same things can’t be discerned from urine. But I should be thankful for small favors, I suppose. At least the blood was drawn from my arm and not my privates. Then, I would have fainted. I hope.